


Requiem

by Madame (McKay)



Series: The Monkees Soap Opera [19]
Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 06:09:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10915920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McKay/pseuds/Madame
Summary: A tragedy rocks the Nesmith family.





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 1999.

"Mom?" 

Isabel glanced up from where she slumped in a hard plastic chair, her elbows on her knees, her face buried in her hands. Rob was hustling down the white-tiled corridor, his face etched in taut lines of worry, and she stood when he reached her. 

Without a word, he gathered her into a crushing embrace, and she clung to him tightly, drawing on his energy to help bolster her rapidly depleting reserve of strength. Long moments later when he finally released her, she reached up and caressed his cheek, smiling wearily when she noticed the streaks of grey beginning to show in his dark beard. Those hadn't been there the last time she saw him, but then, she hadn't seen him in several months—not since the surgery. 

"What's going on?" he asked, his voice hushed as he pressed against the wall, getting out of the way of all the doctors and nurses passing by. "What happened this time?" 

"Same thing," she replied in a resigned tone. "A little worse." 

"I thought the by-pass was supposed to _help_ \--" 

"It did," she agreed. "For a while. But he's weak, and it took more out of him than I think any of us realized." 

"Oh, God..." Rob dropped heavily into the chair Isabel had abandoned. "Mom...What are they saying?" 

She took a deep breath, drawing in the stale, anticeptic air; there was no place in the world that smelled like a hospital, and she felt as if it were stifling her now, making her throat close up. She'd spent more days than she cared to count in Memorial over the past three years; her life seemed to revolve around fretting in the emergency room waiting area at three in the morning, drinking lukewarm cups of hospital cafeteria coffee, trying to sleep in uncomfortable chairs, her heartrate accelerating every time a grim-faced doctor approached and breathing a relieved sigh when he passed her by. 

The hospital was a world, a microcosm in and of itself, and she had been a part of it for so long, she could barely remember the time in her life when she had _not_ been. There had been a respite for about six months, and she had begun to hope that maybe those anxious days were behind them. But now... 

"Mom--?" Rob repeated softly, bringing her back to reality, reminding her that she hadn't answered his question. 

She didn't _want_ to answer his question. 

"What is Dr. Becker saying about Dad?" 

Isabel licked her lips, folding her arms across her midsection as she looked down at him, compassion and regret filling her eyes. And slowly, very slowly, she shook her head. 

Rob stared up at her, his dark brown eyes wide, and she could see the shock and horror growing in their depths. "No..." he whispered, clenching his hands into fists. "No--he's wrong. He's got to be wrong--" 

"Rob, sweetheart," she spoke softly. "I don't think so. Not this time." 

"No, Mom..." He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her stomach, and she could feel his tears soaking through her light sweater. "It can't be true--it can't be--" 

"I know, darling," she crooned, stroking his hair soothingly. "I know." She held him as the long minutes passed, letting him pour out his grief, knowing he needed to release it before he went into the room. 

She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she darted a startled glance behind her to see Isabeau standing there, her grief-stricken expression revealing that she'd figured out what was going on from Rob's reaction. 

"I'm sorry," she murmured, and Isabel nodded her thanks, managing a watery smile. "Is there anything I can do?" 

"Yes," she replied firmly. "Call Peter and Micky and the rest of the kids. I haven't had a chance yet. You and Rob are the only ones who know right now. The numbers are in my purse in there," she instructed, jerking her head towards ICU room #254. "I've got a cell phone too if you need it." 

Isabeau nodded and moved to the door, but Isabel called out to her once more. 

"Can you handle it?" she asked quietly. "Do you want me to get it?" 

But Isabeau shook her head. "No, I can manage." She hesitated, biting her lower lip, then added, "I want to--to see him--I don't want to be in the way later--when you guys--" 

"You are _never_ in the way," Isabel told her sternly. "Don't even talk like that." 

As Isabeau slipped inside the room, Rob finally released his deathgrip on Isabel's waist and looked up at her with wounded eyes, and she felt tears welling at the sight. Cupping his face in both her hands, she leaned down and kissed him lightly. 

"He's fought this with everything in him for three years, my darling," she whispered. "But even he has his limits. It's time for us to be strong now." 

Slowly, Rob nodded, and he released a shuddering sigh as he let go of his mother and leaned back in the chair, his shoulders drooped, his head bowed. 

"I can't imagine life without him, Mom," he told her, his voice a hollow echo of its usual vibrant tones. "I need him to look at my tunes, to help with the videos--I _need_ him--" 

"Don't tell me, tell _him_ ," his mother replied. "Say it now. While you can. These are things he needs to hear." 

Just then, Isabeau emerged from the room, her face parchment white, clutching Isabel's purse with trembling hands. Isabel backed away as Rob stood up, slipping his arms around Isabeau's shoulders. 

"What is it, love?" he asked, peering at her with growing concern. "You all right?" 

Isabeau turned to Isabel with grief-filled eyes. "Oh, my God...Mama...I'm so sorry...I didn't think--" Dropping the purse, she threw her arms around Isabel's neck, hot tears streaming down her cheeks. "I didn't think it could ever really happen--not to him--but it's real, isn't it?" 

"Yes, it's real," Isabel answered, calling on every ounce of her will power and strength to remain calm as she patted Isabeau's back, comforting the shaken woman as best she could. At length, Isabeau released her, resting her hands on Isabel's shoulders as she fixed her with a piercing gaze. "What are you going to do?" she asked simply. 

Isabel met her look for look, her feature remarkably tranquil. She knew what Isabeau meant. What was she going to do when she was left alone? When she could no longer talk to--see--simply _be_ with the man who had been the most important person in her life since she was twenty years old? What would she do the other half of her heart, the other half of her soul was suddenly ripped away? 

But she chose to ignore that question and answer a different one instead. 

"I'm going to go with Rob to see his father," she replied in a steady, even tone. "Do you mind making those calls now? Just scrounge around in my purse til you find the address book." Isabeau took the hint and shook her head, and Isabel nodded with satisfaction as she reached for Rob's hand, clasping it firmly in her own. 

"Ready?" she asked, and when he nodded mutely, swallowing hard as he faced the hospital room door, she gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze. "It's just Dad," she said lightly. "Grouchy as always. He's still the same." 

It was a lie, and they both knew it, but for a while they pretended it was true. 

~*~*~ 

“Izzy..." 

A gentle shake of her shoulder roused her from a fitful slumber, and she cracked her eyes open, raising her head from the makeshift pillow she’d made out of Rob’s sports jacket. After she placed the calls, Isabeau had insisted that Isabel try to take a nap during the few hours of respite they would have before the influx of visitors began. Actually, Isabel thought with bemusement, Isabeau had tried to bully her into going home for a while to sleep, but that attempt had failed miserably. Isabel could cat-nap anywhere, so she had curled up in a cushioned chair in one of the family waiting rooms and dozed off. 

Glancing up, she saw Micky standing over her, his normally cheerful face drawn into uncharacteristically somber lines. She smiled sleepily and stretched out one hand to him, and he clasped it, raising it to his lips as he knelt by her chair. 

“Izzy," he repeated, his tone soft and full of sympathy. “How are you?" 

“ _I_ am fine," she replied, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “Don’t worry about me. When did you get here? Have you seen him yet?" 

“No," he shook his head. “Not yet. I wanted to check on you first." He paused, his usually dancing eyes clouded with worry. “How is he?" 

Isabel let out a long, slow breath, then, releasing his hand, she hauled herself upright, fingercombing her hair into some semblance of order. She probably looked like a hag, she thought. Crow’s nest hair, no make-up--ah, well. If someone couldn’t handle the sight, they’d just have to run away screaming. 

“Pretty bad," she admitted at last. 

“Dammit..." he muttered, closing his eyes as a spasm of pain contorted his features. “How bad?" 

She smoothed one hand down the side of his face, gazing at him with compassion-filled eyes. She hated being the one to deliver such horrible news, to administer such a devastating blow. 

“Micky--this is it," she told him gently. 

“Oh, come _on_!" he exploded unexpectedly, backing away from her and throwing up both hands as if he were trying to ward her--and the unwanted news--off. “You don’t know that! He’s pulled out of it before--" 

But Isabel shook her head. As much as she wanted to cling to that faint hope herself, she knew that she would just be deceiving herself if she did. 

“No," she said quietly but inexorably. “Not this time. We have to face the situation as it is." 

Micky sat down heavily on the floor, covering his face with his hands, and she reached out, curving her arms around him a loose embrace, leaning her head against his. But he wrenched out of her grasp, brushing off her hold as he turned to glare fiercely at her. 

“How can you say that?" he hissed. “How can you even _think_ it? Is this what you _want_? You’re just waiting for him to die?" 

Isabel sat up straight, feeling the blood drain from her face, her eyes growing huge as she gaped wordlessly at him, her hands clenching into fists in her lap. 

“If I didn’t know it was your grief talking, I’d slap the shit out of you for saying that, George Michael Dolenz," she replied at last, her voice tight with barely restrained anger. 

Their eyes locked and held, tension crackling between them--until at last he looked away, lowering his gaze to the floor, his features suffused with anguish. 

“Sorry," he whispered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that." 

“Damn right you didn’t," she snapped. “Don’t you _dare_ say such a thing to me. Even if I didn’t know the truth from the look on Becker’s face every time he walks out of that room, I don’t need a doctor to tell me what I already know--he’s leaving me. Slowly but surely, he’s slipping away, and all _I_ can do is stand around and watch--" 

She broke off then, pressing trembling fingers to her lips as she struggled to keep her emotions in check. Now wasn’t the time to indulge herself; too many people were depending on her to be strong right now, and she couldn’t afford the luxery of tears. 

“It’s okay," she said at last, patting his shoulder lightly, and he covered her hand with his own. “I understand." She drew in a deep breath and somehow plastered a weak smile on her lips. “Now then. Are you ready to go in?" 

Rising slowly to her feet, grimacing a little as her hips and knees protested being cramped in the waiting room chair for so long, Isabel looked down at Micky expectantly. With obvious reluctance, he stood as well, his expression betraying his apprehension. 

“What do I do?" he asked suddenly. “What do I say?" 

She smiled in earnest then, a gentle smile full of compassion, understanding his anxiety. How was one supposed to treat a dying friend? There wasn’t anything in Emily Post to cover _that_. 

“It’s his body that’s failing him, Micky, not his mind," she reminded him. “There’s nothing wrong with that--and the connection between his brain and his mouth is working _especially_ well." 

“Uh-oh," he managed a brief chuckle. “Sounds like a story." 

“The other day he blistered one of the nurses because she jabbed him five or six times trying to find a vein so she could draw blood. She’s now _terrified_ of him and refuses to do anything unless I’m in the room because she’s under the illusion that my presence will make him less likely to say something nasty if she messes up again." 

“Hah!" 

“Yep, that’s what I said," Isabel replied, a light of mirth dancing in her eyes for a moment--and then it was gone. “Ready?" she repeated softly, reaching out and slipping her hand into his. 

“No." Micky shook his head, gripping her slender fingers so tightly that she winced, but she didn’t let go. “I’m not. I never will be. But I guess I’ve got to face this sooner or later." 

“You’ve done it before." 

A flicker of grief passed across his face as if what he felt were still a fresh pain, not one that was literally decades old. 

“That doesn’t make it any easier this time," he replied, his voice filled with a quiet dignity that wrung her heart and made her eyelids sting with unshed tears on his behalf. 

She leaned against his arm for a moment, trying to muster up a few dregs from the rapidly depleting store of her own strength, then, when she felt capable of shouldering her mantle of duty once more, she tugged on his hand, guiding him down the hall. 

~*~*~ 

Micky’s arrival from California was the harbinger of more to come. Over the next hour, family members began to filter in from around the country. Time lost meaning for Isabel as the flow of people continued; children, grandchildren, friends--they arrived and departed, and it was impossible for Isabel to keep track of them all. She put herself on auto-pilot, pulling up a smile and soft greeting for each person who approached her, losing count of the hand-shakes, hugs and encouraging words. She didn't have to feel; she didn't have to think. She could just exist, buoyed up in an ocean of compassion, and for that she was grateful. 

She glanced around--and there was Peter's son Ian, hovering over her almost as much as his sister, suggesting that Isabel rest, offering to bring her coffee or something to eat. 

George lingered outside the hospital room door as if watching for his father, but he didn't go inside himself. Isabel drifted over and asked if he'd like her to accompany him, but he merely smiled--a ghostly version of his usual sunny grin--and shook his head. 

Charlotte bustled in next, having caught the first flight from NYC. 

“Charlotte, what in the world--?" Isabel gasped when she saw Davy’s youngest all but running down the hall towards her. “I didn’t expect you--" 

“I called my understudy," Charlotte replied, her expressive face crumpling as she regarded her adopted aunt. “She can manage for a few days. I wanted to be here--for you--and--" 

Isabel nodded mutely, and, after catching her up in a brief, tight hug, Charlotte released her with a prolonged sigh, still sniffling; digging around in her purse, she searched for a Kleenex, applying it to her eyes and nose after she’d finally fished one out, and then she moved on, stepping into the protective circle of Ian and Rob's arms. 

But out of all the visitors, there was still one face missing. 

All of a sudden, the door to #254 flew open, and Micky burst into the hallway, wide-eyed with alarm. Rob rushed to him, and Micky gripped his arm tightly. 

"Get a doctor--a nurse-- _somebody_!" he demanded, his voice harsh with fear. 

Isabel jumped up and hurried over as Rob obeyed without question, practically running to the nearest nurses' station. 

"What is it?" she asked, keeping her voice low so she wouldn't alarm the others. "What's happened?" 

Micky looked down at her, but his brown eyes were glazed, and she wasn't certain he was seeing her at all. 

"His blood pressure is starting to drop," he rasped, and she felt the coil of tension in her chest wind even tighter. 

"How much?" she pressed, clutching his arm and shaking it a little to make sure he was paying attention. "How quickly?" 

"It's gone down by ten in just the last minute," he replied, and Isabel closed her eyes, swallowing hard as she fought off the panic threatening to rise up and crush her. 

_Oh, Peter_...she thought as she entered the hospital room once more. _Where_ are _you? Please hurry, or you may be too late_... 

~*~*~ 

“Mom?" Rob touched her shoulder, and she jumped, startled out of the light doze she hadn’t realized she’d fallen into. “Sorry," he added, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly. “Uncle Peter’s here. Thought you’d want to know." 

“Oh, yes--definitely--" she mumbled, trying to pull her sleep-hazy mind together as she hauled herself out of the waiting room chair and followed Rob into the hallway. 

A quick glance around showed her Peter was in a quiet conference with Micky; Peter had rested one hand on Micky’s shoulder and was peering at him with that familiar look of concern they all knew so well, having had it turned on them too many times to count over the years. Micky seemed to be trying to keep his expression calm, but she could see his lips trembling and knew what effort the illusion of normalcy was costing him. 

She approached them slowly, giving them time to notice her; Micky spotted her first, plastering a painfully artificial smile on his face as he held out his arm, drawing her into their protective circle. Peter’s smile was genuine enough, but it was laced with apprehension. 

"Sorry it took so long," he began, irritation flitting briefly across his features. "My idiot secretary held the message instead of trying to track me down. Obviously she didn’t understand how important it was, and none of us thought to check the home number voice mail." 

"You're here now," Isabel replied soothingly. "That's all that matters." She paused, then added, "He wants to see you alone. He's already spoken to Micky and Rob." 

"And to you?" Peter asked gently. 

A small, one-sided smile quirked her lips at that. 

"Oh, yes. To me too." 

Every night after visiting hours were over, after the bustling halls had grown silent and still, she had remained, sleeping in the recliner chair in his room rather than returning home. Some nights, he had been wearied by too many visitors or rounds of tests and treatments or feeling wretched thanks to the side-effects of a new medication, and those were the nights when she watched him sleep, fitful as it was, and wished she could take on his suffering as her own. 

But there had been other nights when he was awake and alert, his natural night-owl tendencies not fogged by drugs or exhaustion, and during those times they had talked about everything. About nothing. She'd tried to make him laugh, feeling a profound sense of accomplishment when she actually managed it. 

It had been on one of those nights that she'd crawled into bed with him, sleeping in his arms for what she felt certain was the last time. She'd worried that one of the nurses might shoo her away, but they had tip-toed in and performed their ritual checks of bloodwork and IV changes and tip-toed out again without comment. She supposed they knew--as she did--that time was short for the patient in #254, and one little rule being broken was hardly important in the grand scheme of things. 

"Are you ready?" she asked softly. "He's been waiting for you." 

She heard a harsh choking noise issue from Micky's throat, and she knew that he realized what she meant even if Peter did not. 

"Is he alone?" Peter asked hesitantly, casting a worried look at the room door. 

"If he isn't, he'll clear whoever's in there out," she replied with a chuckle. "He's not shy about it." 

"That's for damn sure," Micky snorted, no doubt remembering how bluntly everyone--including Isabel--had been excused from the room when _he_ went to have his private talk. 

"I don't know what to say..." Peter murmured almost to himself, and Isabel lay a comforting hand on his arm. 

"Then let him start," she advised. "It'll be fine." 

He faced her directly then, skewering her with a look. 

"No, it won't." 

"No." She inclined her head to acknowledge the point. "But you'll get through it." 

He nodded once, then turned away, squaring his shoulders as he walked slowly to the door. 

~*~*~ 

Peter reached up to clasp the door handle and, to his disgust, noticed his hand was trembling. 

_Get it together, Tork_ , he chided himself. _You can't fall apart. He'd hate it, and so would you_. 

He closed his eyes briefly and drew in a deep steadying breath before grasping the handle firmly and turning it, peering around the edge of the door to see what other visitors--if anyone--were in there. 

No one. 

The room was quiet except for the steady, rhythmic blip of the heart monitor. 

"Don't just stand there. Come on in." 

The terse order seemed to resound in the silent room, making Peter jump involuntarily; he grimaced, annoyed with himself for being so on-edge. He ought to be calm and comforting; he shouldn't be sending off negative vibes--not for either of their sakes. 

Trying to conjure a pleasant smile, Peter stepped into the room, closing the door behind him and leaning against it as if that was the only thing keeping himself upright at the moment. Part of him felt as if it were. 

Reluctantly he dragged his gaze to the bed--to Mike--not wanting to see but knowing he had no choice. 

Mike was watching Peter, his dark eyes as keen and piercing as ever, but the rest... 

Peter swallowed hard, barely able to digest the scene before him; this didn't fit any image--any conception--of his friend he could have imagined in his wildest dreams; this was so terribly wrong... 

From what Peter could see above the pristine white linens, Mike's body appeared wasted, ravaged by illness; his cheeks were sunken, his entire face so thin that it seemed Peter could almost see the outline of his skull. His skin hung loosely off his bones in places, and he appeared shrivelled as if he would no longer tower four inches above Peter should he somehow manage to stand upright once more. 

"You gonna say something, or you gonna stand there and stare at me all day?" 

_That_ at least was the same. There was nothing wrong with his mouth, and although his voice was lower and raspier, it was still a familiar enough sound to make Peter relax marginally. 

"Hey," Peter said at last, forcing the words out no matter how inane they sounded. "What's up?" 

Mike snorted weakly and rolled his eyes. 

"Get over here." He lifted his right hand, extending it slowly towards Peter, and Peter hesitated--until he saw how it shook, and he realized Mike was expending a great deal of energy just to make that one gesture. Hastily he crossed the room and grasped Mike's withered hand firmly between both his own, another shock slamming into his gut as he felt the fragile, papery skin, the delicate bones. This hand which he'd seen dancing over guitar strings, seen scribbling down notes for a new song, seen offering its strength and support to others--now it made him think of a word he'd never associated with this particular man in his entire life: "frail." 

Perching on the edge of the bed, Peter kept hold of Mike's hand as he watched him silently--not because he had nothing to say, but rather too much, and he wasn't sure where to begin or if he should begin at all. 

"So you made it after all," Mike said, his tone conversational. 

"Yep," Peter replied, trying to sound just as light-hearted but certain he failed miserably. "I had to see what you're up to this time. You know, you really should quit scaring us like this." He wagged an admonishing finger, and Mike chuckled softly. 

But the mirth quickly faded, and when he spoke again, Mike's voice was quiet and solemn. 

"I am dead, Horatio," he quoted, and Peter felt his stomach clench in response. 

He closed his eyes briefly, fighting to remain composed, pressing his lips tightly together and taking a deep breath before he dared speak. Otherwise, he knew he would break. 

"I am more Roman than Dane," he quoted back, hoping he was close to getting it right--not that it mattered, really. Without even realizing it, he stroked Mike's arm gently, a gesture which perhaps comforted them both. 

"No, you're not," Mike retorted with a slow, barely perceptible shake of his head. "You'll outlive us all, you health freak." 

Peter laughed a little at the familiar jibe, but he meant it when he replied, "I hope not." 

All of a sudden, Mike's fingers tightened fractionally around his. 

"Do I need to tell you?" Mike asked, his expression somber. "Do I need to say the words?" 

Peter didn't have to ask what he meant. "No," he answered without hesitation. "I know. I've always known." He paused, then added, "Besides, if you start spouting true confessions now, I'll _really_ be worried about you!" 

Mike nodded, seeming satisfied, and moved his hand as if to slip it out of Peter's grasp, but Peter refused to let go; instead, he lifted it, pressed it to his cheek for a moment, feeling the dry warmth, feeling Mike's fingers moving slightly in a caress--and then he lowered it to the bed, releasing it. 

"Get the others, will you?" Mike asked, his voice barely audible as if he were having difficulty getting the words out. "Isa, Rob, Micky." 

"Sure thing." Peter smiled warmly down at his friend--his brother--before standing up and moving to the door, summoning those who remained to complete their circle. 

~*~*~ 

Peter nattered on, making Micky and Rob laugh as he spun another tale of the past, this time of the infamous recording session in which Davy had gotten so furious with Mike over something that he'd thrown a sandwich at him--a move resulting in a food fight that dissolved the anger and tension, but it had also ended up with all of them liberally coated with chicken salad. 

This had gone on for the better part of an hour, Rob listening with rapt fascination as Peter and Micky related stories he hadn't heard before of their long and complicated history together; Mike had interjected a few comments of his own in the beginning, but he had fallen silent, seeming content just to listen. Isabel, however, knew it was a cover; he was probably too tired and weak to participate any longer, and she wondered if he'd prefer being quiet to this lively chatter. 

With a quiet chuckle--she remembered all too well when Mike walked through the door that day, his clothes still stained and slimy, his hair in spiky clumps thanks to the dried chicken salad--Isabel turned to Mike to see how he was reacting to this latest bit of nostalgia. He smiled slightly and lifted their joined hands; she added her strength to his as he pressed a kiss to the back of her hand before lowering it again. 

"I love you," he mouthed silently. 

A watery smile curved her lips at the rare words. 

"I love you too," she mouthed back and gave his thin fingers a gentle squeeze, averting her face as she pretended to give her attention to Peter again. 

As she took a deep breath to steady herself, she was aware of a slight pressure in return, then his hand went limp in hers. 

Behind her, the low blip-blip-blip of the heart monitor turned into a monotonous drone. 

She felt her eyes fly wide open, felt her lower jaw drop, felt her heart accelerate, but she couldn't move, couldn't turn to see, to confirm. 

"Mike--?" Peter cut himself off mid-sentence, his entire body suddenly tense and alert as he stared down at his friend. 

Beside her, Micky's face grew slack and white. "No..." It was a whisper. A denial. A prayer. 

Tears streamed down Rob's cheeks as he whirled and threw his arms around Peter, clinging to the older man as if he could no longer support himself. 

"Get a doctor--now!" Peter order hoarsely, and Micky sprinted out of the room. 

Mere seconds later, a flood of white-coated nurses filled the room with Dr. Becker close on their heels. Micky did not return. 

Peter stood--an immovable harbor amid the swirling tide of people--and held Rob, stroking his back and whispering meaningless, unheard words of empty comfort. 

Beside the bed, Isabel gazed down at the companion of her life, dry-eyed as she smoothed one hand down the side of his face, feeling the prickle of his beard in her palm; in her other hand, his was already growing cool. 

"Au revoir, love," she murmured, then she bent and pressed a lingering kiss to his forehead before gently placing his hand on his chest. 

Without another word or backwards glance, she walked out of the room to inform those waiting outside of what they probably already knew. 

~*~*~ 

Micky stood alone on the balcony overlooking the pool area behind the Nesmith house; they'd had it landscaped so that it looked nothing like the vast, rolling plains that made up the rest of the ranch's acreage. Instead, it created the illusion of a tropical oasis, but he saw nothing of its beauty. His sight was turned inward, replaying the memory of that afternoon over and over again. 

He hadn't bothered to change after returning from the funeral, removing only his jacket and loosening his tie slightly; the evening air was cool enough that his long-sleeved shirt didn't feel oppressive, and he shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he sighed wearily. 

No matter how much longer he lived, he knew he'd never forget what Izzy had done, how she'd handled the situation. He knew what deep, soul-tearing grief she must be in, yet she still maintained her poise, answering all inquiries about herself with a soft, "I'm fine." 

_Translation: Don't fuss over me_ , Micky thought with a silent chuckle. 

He admired her strength, her unflagging calm; he didn't remember holding up half so well at Mags' funeral...Truth to tell, he didn't remember a whole helluva lot about that day at all. He'd felt as if he were wrapped up in a cocoon and none of it was really happening to him. It took almost a week for Reality to come crashing down on him, and when it did, it hit _hard_. Despite Micky's attempts to run him off, George had stayed with him, and in the end, he was grateful. He didn't need to be alone once the numbness wore off...and neither did Izzy. 

In his mind, he saw her, saw the shocked expression on her face--the first sign of any strong emotion all day--when the limo arrived at the church and she saw the crowd congregated outside. Friends, family, fans, press--they were all there, turned out in full force. And Izzy had hardly known what to make of it. 

"I didn't know--" she had gasped, one hand flying to her throat. "I never expected--" 

On one side, Rob had captured her free hand and squeezed it gently; on the other, Micky had slipped his arm around her shoulders. Across from them, Peter had reached out and patted her arm comfortingly. 

"Why're you so surprised?" Micky had asked, genuinely curious. He couldn't imagine why this attention was coming as such a shock to her. "You remember what _Davy's_ was like." 

"Yes, but that was Davy," she had replied quietly, staring out the window as they rolled past a seemingly endless line of people, some shouting, some weeping, some merely watching silently. "He was the showman, the cute one. Everybody loved Davy. Mike is--was--the hermit. He was never as popular, and he's been out of the spotlight so long, I thought people had forgotten..." 

"Apparently not," Peter had replied, mustering a smile. 

She had said nothing more about it until after the service, then, instead of letting herself be hustled back to the waiting limo, she'd stopped on the church steps and swept a cool, appraising gaze across the teeming crowd. Several photographers, cameramen and reporters edged closer, calling out questions, but she held up her hands, and to his amazement, the press corps fell silent. 

"Thank you," she said, pitching her voice so that it carried as far as possible. "I didn't expect such an outpouring of love and support, and I'm more grateful than you all can possibly imagine." 

And with that, she had stepped forward, approaching the nearest stranger--a middle-aged woman who was sniffling into a sodden Kleenex. 

"Thank you for coming," Izzy said quietly, extending her hand. 

The woman had shot her a startled glance, then--slowly--reached out and clasped Izzy's hand in return. Izzy continued on, working her way through the crowd, thanking each person, and gradually they began to speak to her in return, some of them clutching her hand like a life preserver as they spilled out stories of inspiration, of influence, of hope in darkest times, of teen crushes and dancing til dawn. Others blurted a few halting words, unable to express the depths of their feelings. Still others offered comfort to Isabel herself. 

Micky had hovered protectively behind her all the while, making sure she wasn't overwhelmed by the mob, but there was no danger; the atmosphere had been subdued, the most tense moment being when Micky almost burst out giggling at the lady who had leaned over and confided to Izzy that when she was a young girl, she'd had _such_ fantasies about "that handsome Mr. Nesmith." Izzy had nodded solemnly and replied, "Me too" before moving on. 

But that was hours ago, and they were back at the ranch now, and all was silent and still. Izzy had gone to lie down for a while, and he wasn't sure where Peter was at the moment. Probably talking with Rob. They'd been a good source of comfort for each other over the past few days. 

With another sigh, he turned and headed back inside, dropping heavily onto the couch and leaning his head back, closing his eyes wearily. Perhaps he ought to go lie down for a while himself... 

The cushions bounced slightly, and Micky cracked his eyes open, peeking out to see who had sat down next to him only to find Peter watching him with an uncharacteristically somber expression. 

"Are you okay?" he asked, and Micky nodded. 

"Yeah, I'm hanging in there," he replied. "You?" 

"I think I'm still in shock," Peter admitted quietly. 

"I think we _all_ are," he agreed, sitting up and twisting a little so he could face Peter directly. "It's going to be a while before it sinks in that he's really gone. We can't call him up anymore, we can't talk to him anymore, we can't bug him anymore..." 

"I can't help but wonder who we'll lose next..." Peter's voice was distant, and if Micky weren't mistaken, there seemed to be tears shimmering in his eyes. 

"You even have to ask?" 

Micky answered more sharply than he intended, but Peter didn't react. Instead, he stared blankly into the air for a long time without speaking; Micky sat quietly next to him, waiting. At length, Peter took a deep, shuddering breath and let it out again slowly. 

"When I saw him in the hospital that last time..." Peter began carefully as if trying to choose just the right words. "He didn't get all emotional--" 

Micky snorted and chuckled softly. "You didn't expect him to, did you?" he asked, his voice laced with amusment. 

"No." Peter shook his head, smiling wryly. "Of course not. But he didn't let me off the hook, either." 

"What do you mean?" 

"I was trying to kid around a little," he continued. "I guess what I was really doing was trying to deny that it was all happening, but he wouldn't let me. He just looked at me and said, ‘I am dead, Horatio'." 

Micky winced and closed his eyes. 

"And I quoted the more Roman than Dane line back, and he said no, I wasn't, and he was right," Peter admitted. "But--" 

"But we have a Roman among us," Micky finished for him, and Peter nodded solemnly. 

"Yes. I very much think we do." 

"How long--?" 

Peter shrugged. "Months maybe, but I doubt very many. You saw her today. She's not even with us anymore. Her body is still here, still moving around and going through the motions of life, but _she_ is elsewhere. We left Isabel in the graveyard with him." 

"It could just be grief and shock and all that--the same thing we're going through," Micky said, but deep down, he didn't believe it even as he said it. 

"After a lifetime together?" Peter cocked a skeptical eyebrow at him. "I don't think so." He paused, smiling wryly and shaking his head. "Those two...I swear...They were so much alike...I know things weren't perfect, but they were about as good as it gets." 

Micky nodded agreement. "We were both very lucky," he replied softly. 

"Yeah, you both found the one woman in ten million who'd put up with you," Peter retorted, finally showing a flash of dimples. 

Micky stuck out his tongue, accepting the teasing for what it was: Peter's attempt to lighten the mood somewhat. But there was still a matter that they needed to discuss. 

"He asked me to look after her," he said, earning a surprised look from Peter. 

"He did--?" 

"Yeah..." Micky paused, leaning forward with his elbows, dangling his clasped hands between his knees as he stared at the floor. "When we talked by ourselves. He wanted me to take care of her, and I said I would." 

"But--why did he ask _you_?" Peter asked, a wounded look creeping into his eyes. "He didn't say a thing about that to _me_." 

"Oh, c'mon, Peter," Micky answered, trying to soften his words as much as possible. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt Peter's feelings now. "How realistic would that be? You can't take care of her the way he'd want. You've got Jane and the kids, and your priorities _have_ to be with them. Izzy could never come first in your life. But I'm alone," he said with a shrug. "I can devote everything to her for however long she needs me." 

Peter was silent for a long moment, a war of emotion playing on his face, but at last he nodded and released a slow sigh. "So what do you plan to do? How are you going to take care of her if she's here and you're still in California?" 

"I'm going to ask her to move in with me," Micky stated, and Peter gaped at him, visibly shocked. 

"You're _what_?" 

"It's the best solution," he continued pragmatically. "This place has way too many memories. She doesn't need to stay here surrounded by ghosts. I've got plenty of room at my house, and neither of us will have to be alone." He gave another shrug. "For a while, anyway." 

Peter gave a mirthless smile. "Makes sense to me," he conceded. "But now you have to convince _her_ of that." 

~*~*~ 

Micky braced himself for a fierce battle when he first broached the subject of moving to California with him, certain that she would be adamant about not leaving her home. He knew from experience that while she didn't dig in her heels as often as Mike, when she did, her stubbornness rivaled his for strength and longevity. 

Thus he was shocked when she listened to his idea, then simply nodded and asked when he wanted to leave. 

"Uh..." he gaped at her, momentarily stunned into silence. "How long will it take you to pack up what you want to take?" 

"Not long," she replied in a low tone. "I don't want to take much." She glanced around and folded her arms across her middle before turning her gaze to the floor. "All this was ours," she whispered. "He's still so much a part of it." 

"You're not trying to escape, are you?" Micky asked gently, concerned that she was accepting his offer as a means of running away from her grief rather than facing and dealing with it. 

"How can I?" She glanced up, skewering him on her gaze. "It would be like trying to escape myself. No, I just don't need all these things to remember." 

~*~*~ 

Within two weeks, Isabel had settled into one of Micky's spare bedrooms, seeming content with the change. Rob had endorsed the move whole-heartedly, mostly because it meant his mother was closer to his own homebase, and he took advantage of the opportunity to visit often and check up on her. 

She and Micky had always been close--more like siblings than friends--and they fell into an easy camaraderie as the weeks turned into months. Despite having gotten used to living a bachelor's life, Micky found it surprisingly easy to adapt to having Izzy around. He grew accustomed to her presence in his house, in his life; he enjoyed talking to her, simply being with her. It made a pleasant change from the long, lonely days and nights he'd spent before her arrival. 

But as time wore on, he couldn't ignore the subtle changes that appeared almost on a daily basis; she grew thinner and paler, as if she were becoming a mere shadow of herself--or perhaps her own ghost. She grew more quiet, and Micky harbored the suspicion that she was withdrawing further and further away from the world--from him--until she finally confirmed it. 

"I had the most wonderful dream last night, Micky," Isabel said, her voice detached as if her thoughts had drawn her back into her dreamworld, far far away from the real world and from him. 

"Really?" Micky asked, forcing himself to keep his voice light. But the truth was that his blood ran cold as ice in his veins when he saw the otherworldly distance in her eyes. "What was it about?" 

"Mike." 

And Micky felt his soul shudder at that one simple word. 

"I was on the beach," she continued, leaning her cheek against her fist as she propped her arm on the back of the couch, not looking at Micky at all, her eyes soft and unfocused as if she were seeing something in the distance--or far within. "Outside the old beach house. I could hear music in the air, and it sounded like a medly of all these tunes I knew." 

"Like what?" he interjected softly, and she glanced at him, blinking as if she were only just realizing he was still there. 

"Oh, like ‘Mary, Mary', ‘Tengo Amore', ‘Magic'." She paused, appearing to consider the matter further. "I think I heard ‘Juliana' and ‘Twilight Prism' too," she mused. 

If he remembered correctly, those were all Mike's songs, Micky thought, feeling a knot of cold, sick dread forming in the pit of his stomach. All songs that he felt pretty sure had some significance to their marriage, their lives together, their love... 

"I started walking along the shore," she said softly. "It was like the music was leading me, but I didn't know where I was going. There was no one around, and all the houses along the way seemed empty, abandoned." 

She sighed quietly, closing her eyes as she spoke, a slight smile curving her lips. "And then I saw this figure in the distance--this tall, thin figure--and I knew it was him. I started running, and when I got closer, he turned to face me. He looked so young...I remember he was wearing a white shirt, and he had the beard, but there wasn't a trace of grey in it or in his hair. He held out his arms to me and he was smiling that tiny little smile that always meant he was pleased about something. You know the one." 

"Yeah," Micky rasped, his voice suddenly rough from the tears he felt clogging his throat. "I know the one." 

"When I finally reached him," she resumed speaking again as if she hadn't even heard Micky's acknowledgment, "he pulled me close and held me so tight, and I felt like we'd never been apart, like his death was the dream and standing there on the beach in his arms again-- _that_ was the reality. Then he said he'd been waiting for me, that he hadn't left me--not for a single moment--he'd been right by my side all this time--" 

Her breath caught in soft hitches in her chest, but still she continued, and Micky almost begged her to stop; he didn't want to hear this. Not now. Not from her. 

"He told me he'd be back, and I asked him when..." 

Her voice trailed off, and Micky waited, his breath caught in his throat, dreading to hear the answer. But she remained silent, her eyes still closed, her brows drawn together in a slight frown. 

"And then what happened?" he prompted gently, reaching out and lightly resting his hand on her arm. 

Her eyes flew open, her expression startled as if for a moment she'd forgotten he was there, but it swiftly turned wistful as one corner of her mouth quirked upward, and she shrugged. 

"And then I woke up."   
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Amen.**

**Requiscat in Pace**

Robert Michael Nesmith (December 30, 1944-March 14, 2018)

Mary Isabel Evans Nesmith (December 31, 1945-October 17, 2018)

  



End file.
